Shortcomings
by RainboneCaink
Summary: Draco is lamenting his situation in the second floor bathroom, when Harry walks in on him. Angst, self harm, awkwardness.


Draco Malfoy stared balefully at his reflection in the mirror. The sickly light emanating from his wand, placed on the next sink, made him look quite ill. He supposed he might be; ill from stress and fatigue and perhaps even malnutrition. It was certainly not difficult to become mildly malnourished, and it wouldn't come as such a shock. He hadn't had much of an appetite for quite a while, after all.  
But still… It was difficult to believe that he really looked so dreadful. He brought fingers up to examine the bags under his eyes, pulling the waxy skin this way and that.

He'd been careless with himself. He'd need to cast some glamours. Father would, no doubt, be disappointed at his lack of responsibility, had he not been in Azkaban. It had always been implied that certain shortcomings were acceptable, but that public knowledge of such things was not.

Well. Tomorrow the glamours would come up and then it wouldn't matter how ill he suspected he was becoming because he wouldn't be able to tell.

He sighed at himself, and adjusted his tie in a futile attempt at making himself look more presentable.

Myrtle was absent, at least. Draco tried to be thankful for small mercies.

But…

It came to this, did it?

Very well.

Through the mirror he saw that he was sneering slightly.

He'd been under the impression that when he'd received the Mark he'd be- amongst other things- whisked up into a world of lavish dinner parties and celebrations befitting an eligible pureblood such as himself. That was what he'd always been led to believe.  
Occasionally his father would be summoned formally, through post, and whenever he left in new dress robes and gloves Draco would wait in the sitting room for him to return. He would arrive back as dawn was breaking, intoxicated enough not to punish Draco for wasting an evening but instead to feed him morsels of information- midsummer's night rituals, 1914 Bordeaux, marble altars…

Sometimes Father would sit in one of the wingback chairs and the silk or crushed velvet or brocade of his robes would wrinkle as he leant back. Draco would watch his father sit and doze beside the fire, dying to know what sort of wild, wonderful party could tire his father so much that he would compose himself in such an unbecoming way; slumped, at ease, eyes sliding shut, and sometimes- god forbid- flushing.

Grimy porcelain and damp socks were a long way from what he'd imagined. He'd been promised… He'd expected something more than _this_ as a welcome to the Dark Lord's ranks. All throughout the summer, even so far as being on the Express he'd been eager to prove himself and prove his family's worth behalf of his father. He'd realized fairly quickly though that he'd been set a herculean task and he was… well, certainly not a boy, but not capable of dealing with any of this.

A small part of himself, though happy to work for a worthy cause, wondered what sort of an organization got a boy of sixteen to do such dirty work.

Draco wasn't sure what to think anymore, so he tried his best _not_ to.

Both of his hands still held the sink basin, though it hadn't gotten any warmer, and water dripped from a dozen leaky pipes and fixtures.

A chill was creeping in through his hunched shoulders, and his wet feet, and his skinny arms.

With a last unimpressed look at his reflection in the mirror, he turned away and made his way along the row of sinks towards the basin filled with broken glass. Splinters and shards filled it half full, lay on the ledge around it and fanned out on the floor before it, glowing in the water. Draco might have found it quite beautiful, if he thought he had the time for such things.

The mirror had been shattered for as long as he could remember, and nobody had ever cared enough to mend it. Nobody used the bathroom on the second floor. Whenever anybody did decide to they no doubt had far too much on their minds to bother with making the place look nice, and that seemed fair enough to Draco.

The water ebbed and rippled around his feet unpleasantly before he paused, picked a sizeable piece up, and thanked Merlin that at least he wouldn't be looking at himself with _this_ mirror. He then returned to his station and set the glass down carefully, parallel to his wand. The lumos that fell upon it cast patterns on to the ceiling.

With practiced motions he unbuttoned and rolled back one shirt sleeve and then the other. His gaze, as usual, was drawn first to the Mark. The contrast of the black against his skin was so severe that, even in the dim light, it was perfectly visible. The skull and the snake stared their glib stare.

When he'd grown accustomed to the Mark, he eyes could once again focus on the cuts on his arms, set out like ladders, straight and evenly spaced. Certain shortcomings were acceptable, but public knowledge of such things was not. This was fine. It was not fine for Draco to be seen in public as some nervous wreck, a blathering incompetent. _They_ were his composure. A gentle squeeze whenever he felt as if he'd never make it through the year reminded him not to panic. He had everything under control.

He eyed them critically before picking up the glass and setting to work again, looking for the old ones and opening them back up.  
He angled his hand and set his face, digging the glass in and dragging it down. Spots of blood hit the basin, and if they made a noise doing so, the dripping taps disguised it, as they did with a myriad of other noises.

Draco blinked.

He lowered the glass, wary, unable to shake the impression that he was being watched by something other than his Mark.  
Was it the pipes, or did he hear movement? Somebody agitating the water on the floor? He… he had better _not_ be hearing anybody else, that was for sure. The burning sting in his arm seemed to have focused his concentration so much that he was on the edge of his nerves. Ordinarily this was the desired effect, but it seemed apparent to Draco now that adrenaline kicks didn't pair well with stress. He shook his head. It must have been one in the morning, he told himself. Nobody had followed him out of the common room, and nobody knew where he was. His head and arm throbbed in maddening unison, and in an attempt to compose himself, he took a breath and another good look at the room through the mirror. He clung on to the sides of the sink for good measure.  
Lank hair, sunken eyes- oh, that seemed about right. Cracked tiles. Dim light hitting the cubicle doors rusting off their hinges, throwing shadows into corners. An open door. Glasses-

Glasses?

"Potter-!"

The blonde started and spun around, as if hoping the reflection had lied to him, feet kicking up water. But it was definitely Potter standing across the room, with his stupid muggle eyewear and his ridiculous hair sticking up all over the place. He grabbed the door tightly and wore an expression of mild confusion. His mouth hung open, as if he'd come in ready to accuse or hex him half to death, but had been thrown for six by what he'd seen and didn't know what to do with himself.

Draco didn't either. Blood rushed to his head and was blotted on the shirt sleeves that slid back down his arms.

He hadn't factored for this, and he didn't quite know what to make of it. Ducking into the abandoned bathroom to get himself in check could always have meant an intruder of some sort (Myrtle or otherwise) might find him, but to… 'blow off steam' by… It was one in the morning! He had seen nobody follow him! Should he grab his wand or hope Potter would slink back out like the dog he was? One thing that was clear to Draco was that he was becoming frustratingly indecisive.

They locked eyes. Neither said a word. Potter didn't move from his spot behind the door. He had obviously poked his head around out of curiosity and had not known what to make of what he had seen. Draco recognized this as the height of rudeness and wished he'd either come in and shut the door behind him or fuck off. He shrugged out a strangled laugh, eyes wide with disbelief. He wondered if he was finally having a breakdown of some sort.

"Get out, Potter," he managed.

Potter, to his credit, had closed his mouth. He fidgeted his hand along the door and bore an expression of unease.

"This isn't your bathroom, Malfoy,"

Draco could hear his pulse racing through his body, and was amazed that it wasn't echoing off of the walls. He thought, briefly, that he should like to sit down.

"I don't see anybody else using it."

Potter stared openly, eyes narrowed, before giving a hesitant "No…"

He looked as though he would have like to have said something more, but he didn't. He retreated, eyes down, and shut the door behind him, leaving Draco alone.

Shaken, he paused, wondering if he dared Believe that Potter had left without a word. Incredible, though he doubted if he'd gotten off that easily. Potter had seen his Mark, had seen what he'd done to himself. He'd left without a word, but no matter how competent Draco seemed outside of the abandoned bathroom on the second floor, Potter would always know that it was an act.

What would his father say?

He struggled with a rusted tap and washed his hands. He dried them roughly on his trousers, buttoned his sleeves and reached for his wand.

"Nox," He whispered, finding himself in the dark again.

Draco set his face and left.


End file.
